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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24080701">The Lady of the Underworld (Daisy)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu'>roraruu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Flowers of the Underworld [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Mythology, F/M, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore), References to Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:14:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,289</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24080701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mila's beloved daughter Celica, the goddess of springtime, fall in love with one of Duma's prized reapers, she flees to the Underworld to marry him. Little does she know that the choice she makes will echo through Valentia for years to come, with dire consequences. Inspired by Hades and Persephone.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alm/Anthiese | Celica</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Flowers of the Underworld [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737331</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Lady of the Underworld (Daisy)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>quarantine got me yearnin somethign severe. anyways wassup, this collection is from my own personal love for mythos and shit. like the 3h fairytale collection, a lot of the stories are edited, like this one (i think persephone falling for hades hadestown-style is more compelling than stealin some girl lol). anyways i hope you enjoy this, i have a few more legends planned bc some people just slot into roles nicely. no particular update schedule, just when i'm aching lol<br/>thanks for everything y'all do  ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It is a quiet day in the gardens of Mila’s Temple when the Goddess of Springtime first sets her eyes upon the Reaper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is making daisies bloom and flower when she hears a twig snap behind her. Celica’s head whips around, the wildflower crown of her lineage falling from her hair. She catches a glimpse of a boy with green hair and matching eyes, slinking back into the treescape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, she considers calling out to the mysterious face behind the trees, but instead, she turns back into the meadow of daisies. Pollen drips from her fingertips and onto her white gown, marking it like ash and soot. She spreads another round of spring in summer, when the sunflowers bloom and lilies become fat and plump. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is the job she has completed for some thousand years; spreading the bounty that is Mila’s. She is the Earth Mother’s favourite child, her most treasured possession crafted from her own loins. Her beauty rivals only that of the Goddess of Love, with hair of red reeds, skin of white beaches, her eyes of Rigelian rubies and her lips of pink skies, a sailor’s delight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a result of Mila’s love, she is incredibly possessive of Celica. Where ever she goes, she has an entourage of followers: the Goddesses of Medicine and Pride, a high magician and a nymph are amongst her party, bound to protect the incarnation of spring from harm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, the Goddess can protect herself. She is skilled, using the razor-sharp leaves of Gladiolus as her swords, the bark of a tree as her armour and a shield of stones from a Zofian quarry. Often, she lies and says she is deep in prayer in Mila’s temple before she flees off to a hidden meadow in the gardens for time alone. Being the Goddess of Spring, of Grain, of Vegetation brings many followers; and Celica grows tired of their empty thanks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels as though she is only used for her bounties, keeping Valentia in a constant state of production. She is no longer a goddess, instead a vessel. And while it angers her Celica continues to bless the continent of Valentia with her bounty, ever flowing from her hands. She is needed, without her, humanity would face great strife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s another snapped twig, the air growing still as she takes a step closer to the edge of Mila’s garden. Celica has never left for the darker parts of the forest; the Earth Mother has restricted her to wide meadows and garden, most often her Temple and Palace, for Celica to make flower. She oft traces farmers fields and empty meadows, making grains and vegetation grow in her step.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her followers used to offer her their picked flowers in return for her bounty; her favourite were daisies, since her inception at the death of her father, the God of Winter. Now, she lets them wither.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Make no mistake, I can defend myself.” She calls out into the woods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a moment of silence, her breath catching in her throat as she sees a boy wander into Mila’s garden. His navy armour catches the sunlight and glints dully. He wears a sword of gold and blue. Celica, ever sheltered, could not know that the sword he swore was that of a scythe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t intend to harm you.” The boy says, his hands moving from the ground. “I only wanted to ask if I could trouble you for some flowers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica’s brow furrows. No one ever asked before they took her labours. Such a question was odd. “Why do you want them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish to make a flower wreath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A wreath?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, for myself.” He says, his eyes softening. “I don’t get to see flowers often where I’m from.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you from?” Celica finds herself asking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy’s face falls a little. He leans close and forces a smile. “Promise you won’t get scared?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica holds out her little finger. “Promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hail from the Underworld.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Goddess stares at the boy a moment before laughing. “No chance, you’re too sunny for the Underworld.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem pretty dour for up top.” He laughs. “What are you even, a nymph?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica leans towards him. “I’m the Goddess of Springtime, Celica.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy’s brow furrows, no recognition flashes across his face. He gives a half-hearted shrug. For a second, Celica wants to ask if he’s lived under a rock—which he has—but instead she feels a bit of relief. No expectations, nothing to be held to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I have one of your daisies, goddess?” He asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica nods and watches as the boy kneels to the soft grassy ground. As he does, the grasses begin to die and wither. Her breath catches in her throat as his gauntlet wraps around a daisy. Before he even plucks it, the flower withers and dies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should I be asking what you are?” She finds herself asking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy looks up, almost pitiful. “A reaper.” He says. “That always happens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All instincts in her mind, her heart, tell her to run as fast as she can. Celica, however, kneels beside the reaper. Her fingers touch the daisy, bringing it back to life with her power. She plucks it from the earth, and offers it to him. This time, it doesn’t die in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I suppose I will have to make your flower wreath for you.” Celica proposes. With soft hands and gentle movements, she weaves the stems of a dozen daisies together. “Bow your head, my liege.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dutifully does as Celica rests the wreath upon his head. With a kiss upon the daisies, they only bloom stronger, rather than die. Together, they lie in the meadows of Celica’s garden, speaking of the daisies. When night falls and Celica can hear Mila calling for her, she scurries to her feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches out for her, his hand cold against her warm skin; as if the moon dares to kiss the sun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Might I see you again?” He asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica bows her head slightly. “Perhaps.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you come back here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if I may have your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy smiles. “Alm, of the Underworld.” He replies</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Goddess of Love warns Celica not to give her heart away so easily. It makes her stiffen, she’s never spoken a word of her meetings with Alm. Yet Faye’s intuition is vast; she can see the makings of love, infatuation, romance and lust before anyone else can. And herself, she spreads spells of love and lust across Valentia just as Celica spreads flowers and grains and vegetation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, her spells have no effect on the Gods, bless Mila.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But humanity is not the only poor souls that are subject to the whims of lust and romance. Those who live upon Olympus, in the Earth Mother’s pantheon are subject to it frequently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the goddess of Spring and beauty is no different than that. Mila always said that a heart is a fickle thing, as is a God’s. Often, she kept to herself, in her abode of flowers and springtime. Scarcely, she left to see others. Her followers picked more daisies in her honour, sacrificing them at shrines, which she came to collect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How sick for the goddess of spring to be lovelorn herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She realizes on the eve of the Mid Summer that her heart aches for the reaper, the son of Duma. His sword has cut through her gladiolus sword, her stone shield, her bark armour. She’s lost her heart to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the reaper, has to. He confesses to her in the warmth of the sun, his hands still frozen in hers. He pleads for her love, and Celica pleads for his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With such heartfelt confessions, a deadly romance is born.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Such a gradual romance leads to intense love. Over the course of spring and summer, Alm visits her garden everyday and they speak of all that they wish they weren’t. Celica wishes that the Valentians could do without her, or at least appreciate her more. Alm wishes that he did not have to take lives and guide them to eternal damnation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you marry me?” Alm jokingly asks as they pass through the garden one one moonlit night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica has to stop herself from laughing as such an incredulous idea. “You wouldn’t have a priest.” She says, ever faithful to her Mother and the Pantheon which she built.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A vow from you would be all I need.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve no marriage bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think the grasses of this garden would do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica stops walking, looking to her lover. “You don’t have a ring.” She whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what if I did?” Alm asks. “I see a thousand here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Silly boy, there is only flowers, no rocks or minerals.” Celica chastises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then pick me one.” He dares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica, ever playful in the presence of her lover, leans down to the earth. With her protective kiss of spring, she plucks the flower from the earth and hands it to her lover.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mila would never consent to a marriage of one of Duma’s reapers. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Alm’s fingers carefully curl the stem and knot it together, making it into a never-ending circle.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mila would threaten her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes flicker to hers, realization hitting her like the back of a blade.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mila might kill her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands reach for hers, clasping them tight in his gauntlets. The meadow grows still as Alm holds the daisy ring before her and speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Inside her mind, Mila screams no.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you marry me, Celica?” Alm asks, his voice barely above a whisper; a plead only for her ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From her lips, she whispers. “Yes, I will.”</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lovers make a plan to flee. The War Father, Duma, will grant them safety in the Underworld, where they may be wed. Mila’s reach dies in the darkness. On the midsummer’s eve, Celica fills her bed with flower petals and asks the Goddess of Love and Beauty to sit court in her place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Faye asks why, Celica replies that she is off to deliver the Rigelians a bounty in the extreme north. The last person who sees her is one of her mother’s handmaidens, a nymph named Silque. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beyond the garden, Alm waits in the shadows. He holds out his hand for her to take. In it, she trembles, shaking like an autumn leaf. But as soon as they reach the dark fields of the beyond and slip past their guardian Forsyth—under the guise that the cloaked Celica is a soul that Alm has just reaped—they are home free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until they meet the doors of the Underworld. They are locked up tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alm can pass through, but Celica is repelled back. None of Mila’s children may pass through. Panic settles in; wandering souls above, stuck in limbo unable to pay the ferryman’s toll or unwanted by Duma would do anything to become mortal again. Even if it is stealing the Goddess of Spring from her lover and going forth to Mila.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need a blessing.” Alm realizes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A blessing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Duma. If he blesses the idea of our marriage, then you can go through.” He whispers. “I’ll cross through and tell him, then I’ll come back for you. Wait here, my love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please hurry Alm.” Celica begs, fearing Mila’s wrath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses a kiss to her lips. “I promise, I’ll run as fast as I can.” He says before disappearing through the doors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica paces the entrance, flowers growing in her wake. A small field blooms before a half hour passes. Within an hour, she’s made another creation, stranger than anything else in the world: it’s a dark black tree with a single gold fruit and rose gold leaves. It distracts her for a few moments until she’s pulled back to the possibility that Mila may find her before Alm returns for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, she grows nervous. Against all good judgement, desperate to see her lover, Celica begins to bang her hands on the iron door of the entrance to the Underworld. The door shudders and shakes with every pound, Duma’s magic and Mila’s decree forcing her hands back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, in the grasses, she sees a man wrapped up in a dark blue toga and cloak. Sandals are laced up his calves. He doesn’t look like a soldier, too thin and emaciated like a skeleton. His hair is half blue and half black, an abnormal combination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s dead to the world. Er. <em>Under</em>world. Celica reaches down to shake him awake, his bony frame heavier than he looks; he’s freezing cold, just like Alm’s hand in hers. The man takes one look at her white stola, Alm’s dark cloak that he lent her, the crown of wildflowers around her head and scoffs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you’re sellin’, we ain’t buyin’.” He says, turning back over in his bed of dead wheat and torched grass. “Be it pottage spoons or holy relics.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica’s brow furrows. Does he not know who she is? She’s the Goddess of Springtime, Vegetation and Grain. Humans bow at her feet, Mila’s court dotes upon her, her worshippers would kill in her name. Most everyone in the Pantheon knows who she is; even those that she has not been acquainted with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sees the glint of a gold badge upon his chest; a mark of Duma. He must be the ferryman of the River. But why is he locked out of his own canals?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With renewed determination, Celica straightens up. “I sell nothing but my soul. I will pay you to escort me across the river.” Her voice is not her own, too commanding, too deep for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ferryman sits up, his elbows on his knees and looks up at Celica with tired, unimpressed eyes. “How much?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gazes upon the Nethergranate tree that she managed to grow. From it, she plucks it’s strange fruit from the branches and offers it to him. “I’ll give you all the seeds from this fruit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ferryman looks from the fruit and then to her. “I’ve worked for worse.” He says, forcing himself from the ground. Celica elates as he forces the door open; she passes through the gateway, a freezing wind blasting forth from the opening. He moves first, then looks over his shoulder. “Comin’ queenie?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica raises the hem of her dress and hurries down the staircase, outrunning the ferryman. He gives her a strange look from top to bottom when she’s at the beaches of the river. He says nothing, readies the ferry of rotted and wormed wood and brittle bones. At the bow and stern are dangling lanterns, presumably to light the way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s thick fog across the river; the waves crash and thud angrily. She’s heard tales that the Rivers Styx and Acheron are full of the souls of the dead and forgotten. Perhaps they do not like her, she does not belong her. He turns to Celica, a hand out for his payment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cracks the skin of the Nethergranate, the juice spilling over her hands like blood. There’s cocoons of little beads; she plucks them out and places them in the ferryman’s dead hand and then meets his gaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will that suffice?” She asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, stashing the seeds in a handkerchief in his cloak. He throws a leg over the side of the raft and then holds his hand out for Celica to take. The Goddess climbs in, the skin of the Nethergranate still in her grasp. She sits at the bow of the little boat, the waves rock the boat so steadily that it threatens to capsize. The ferryman looks undeterred as he climbs in and pushes off from the shore, the boat shaking like a leaf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can throw the skin off the side. The river’ll take care of it.” He says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica does not want to reach out from the side of the boat, for fear that one of the spirits will grab her, yet she does as she’s told. The skin and sinew of the Nethergranate fall from her hand and into the waters with a gelatinous splash. She winces and pulls back, finding that one last aril lays in her lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She plucks the dark bead from her stola and stares at it for a moment. It glimmers like a dark ruby and smells sweet. She wonders if this creation, the one first blooming in the Underworld, will last. Or if it will die on it’s lonesome.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She places the aril on her tongue, it’s taste rich and refined. But as she did, she felt her stomach drop with weight, as if something now kept her feet weighted to the ground. But she will not know that reason for such a feeling until much later. For now, she enjoys the taste of the fruit, the Nethergranate that she grew herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The waves begin to lax as they cross the River Acheron. She realizes then, that Alm is on the shore, about to hop the jagged rocks across. Terrified that he will fall in and face the same fate as the souls of the river, Celica calls out for him. Alm turns back and leaps as far as he can. He runs as fast as he can to her as Celica trips out of the ferry. They collide on the beach, grasping each other tight. Flowers bloom in Celica’s every step as she flies into Alm’s arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jeez chief, you know this dame personally?” The ferryman jeers. He’s already picking away at the arils that Celica paid him with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes Python,” Alm nods between the kisses that Celica peppers him with. “She’s the new Lady of the Underworld, my wife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ferryman groans at the lovers’ desire before setting sail for the other side of the River Acheron. The boat floats through the fog, becoming a distant memory. “You received Duma’s blessing?” Celica asks with wide eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alm nods with a wide smile. He presses a kiss to her forehead, then both of her cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we’ve got a priest for our vows. A full table of food too.” Alm says before listing off the other things she asked for. “As well as a bridal suite by the Elysian Fields.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Celica has to laugh to stop herself from crying with happiness. She clings to Alm as he plants a final kiss on her lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And a proper ring.” He whispers, offering a black tungsten ring—the strongest metal found in Mila’s earth. Such a sight makes Celica melt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, but I fear I’ve grown attached to my current one.” She winces; the daisy ring that he crafted not so long ago has not wilted or even dulled in colour. It rests upon her ring finger proudly. “I couldn’t part with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alm looks at his lover with a smile before holding out his hand. “Then we won’t.” He tells her. “Come. The wedding table is set, the priest awaits and Duma wishes to meet you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, my lord.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let us go my lady.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alm takes Celica’s hands, the two walking through the passage way to the Underworld. In their tracks, black marks—dying sand—from Alm’s boots and budding daisies from Celica’s sandals crop up. Neither know that their union would cause Mila’s rage and Duma’s indifference, nor humanity’s following struggle and suffering, or that the tiny Nethergranate aril that Celica consumed would become her chain that tethered her to the Underworld for two seasons of every four. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right now, all she and Alm may think of is their coming wedding, their thundering heartbeats and the lover’s desire that threatens to burn them both alive, and the folly of the aril that will bind her to the Underworld for years to come.</span>
</p>
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